And now my Dear Reader, we have reached the inevitable point in my little memoir in which you are introduced to my father.
To describe my father in one sentence would be like trying to accurately describe color to a blind person or the concept of humility to Kanye West. Thus, I feel like in order to accurately construct a portrayal would be to take a break from the events of my little tale and devote a little anecdote to the only person in my house who I could not only tolerate, but whose company I enjoyed. It is only fitting, considering I did the same with most of my brothers.
My father was unlike most of my friend's male parents. In fact, he was unlike most men his age in my town. (Or on the planet for that matter) To determine where to begin in my mission to establish these differences would be like trying to determine the location of a needle in a haystack. But I will try my best. Allow me to begin with the basics; his appearance.
For starters, my father had pure white hair. Do not associate it with a pale blond shade like Azazel or Astaroth's, Dear Reader, for your visualization will be terribly inaccurate. His hair was the pure blunt white that usually represented the arrival of old age. But aside from the pigmentation of this hair, he did not give off the slightest indication that he was going to kick the bucket anytime soon. It was also styled in a rather uncanny format, in a masculine pixie-cut, save for two strands of hair originating at his temples and extending beyond the length of his face to the extent of which he could have entwined them in a knot if he so desired. His eyes were the strangest shade of electric blue that was rarely found outside fantasy videogames. I had often found myself pondering over the theory that like my emo-half brother, he too, donned color contacts. Even to this day, the pondering has yet to cease. In addition to his hair color, they were so incredibly narrow and slanted that if they had looked even a tiny bit more so, he could have passed for Asian. However, they seemed to come to an abrupt stop between the Euro-Asian borderline. Hence, the reason I believed we were of Russian descent (I am not wrong)
Aside from his eyes, my father's face was the most attractive one within my family. What with his prominent jaw, his chiseled features, and slashed eyebrows, he would not looked out of place on the cover of a fantasy teenlit paperback, embracing some scrawny, author's pet.
(Ok I totally regret saying that. Now I can't get the image out of my head and I think I'm about to puke. I'll need a moment)
Resuming the story, my father was incredibly well built for somebody of his age; where most of my friends fathers were beginning to develop paunches and chest hair, well past the start of their decline from youth, he had a perfectly waxed six-pack, usually foreshadowed via the opening of a v-neck. It was for this reason that I hated when my Father came to my school (usually for Samael's plays) Because I would always have to bear the gut-wrenching feeling of hearing a gaggle of promiscuous, up-and-coming streetwalker seniors giggling and cooing over him behind us (no matter where we sat they always knew where we were located and managed to procure the previous seats) And the next day I would have to face the wrath of the principal for rubbing wet wipes all over their artificially-constructed clown-faces in retaliation to their attempts to use me as a means for obtaining our home number. But I digress.
None of us could ever figure out what my father did for a living. Every time we asked him, he would give us a different answer. The effects of this emerged in moments like when I got a time out in second grade for punching a prissy brat who dared to doubt my claim that my Father was an international spy. He never apologized for that. Whatever my father did for a living, it definitely raked in a lot of money (which is to be expected of a Princeton graduate like himself) Otherwise, how else would my family be able to reside in a Mcmansion with a swimming pool and a tennis court? Also, it probably involved staying inside a room absent from light. This was because my father's flesh had the palest complexion I had ever seen. It almost matched his hair color to such a pinpoint that he looked as though he was drawn on a sheet of printer paper. Aside from his eyes, all the color in his body seemed to be leached out. Add that to the fact that he shared the name of the lord of all that is evil, and his heavily concentrated amount of ex-wives (for a non-celebrity) and there was enough rumor fuel to cause a gas explosion.
And when it came to favorites, Father didn't even try to hide that I was his. Of course Lucifer had been his pride and joy as well, but to Father, he was a reflection of his parenting skills. I, on the other hand was his princess. The apple of his eye and what he felt for me was genuine love. Lucifer was somebody to show off to the neighbors. I was somebody to pamper and protect. Oh, he didn't exactly neglect the rest of the lot, and he did have a soft spot for Amaimon and Azazel. But I was the only one (besides Lucifer) who wasn't a total wash-up introvert! I was going places! I was special! Sure father always came to Samael's plays and Astaroth's poetry readings and stuff. But I was the favorite (aside from Lucifer)
Now that we've established that I was father's favorite (who was still living in the house) I think we can finally continue from where we last left off.
